


do it all the time

by s0dafucker



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Cheating, M/M, Secret Relationship, Smut, Songfic, hes a young drunk ex missionary but his eyes and his soul r as old as time, i dont condone cheating its just uhhh kinda fun 2 write, idkhow era dallon, its that rich young and hot vibe, lil bit of twtltrtd era bren, loosely based on do it all the time, mmmm its not wholesome kids, not porn tho smut for story purposes, pftw era brendon, sort of sugar daddy i guess?? u could say dallons his sugar daddy if u want, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 18:58:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16435004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: dallon’s car costs more than brendon’s rent, and he knows it.‘i have a boyfriend,’ brendon says, breathless and flushed, and dallon knows that, too.





	do it all the time

dallon’s car costs more than brendon’s rent, and he knows it.

‘i have a boyfriend,’ brendon says, breathless and flushed, and dallon knows that, too. he keeps one hand on the wheel, lets brendon’s hands find his hair, runs his fingers over the small of the younger man’s back.

‘he doesn’t have to know.’ and brendon takes it, hair falling in his face, and he braces himself on the center console and presses their lips together. he tastes like cherry cola, young and reckless and pretty.

his cds sound better in dallon’s cd player and so they listen to the 1975 and lana del rey and the shit he’d expect from a little twink when they drive down the highway with the top down- brendon wears a scarf once, a gauzy red the same shade as the car, and he blushes when dallon chuckles. (he ends up hiding dark bruises under the scarf when he leaves, walking down the block to his apartment and cursing dallon out mock-angrily in a loud whisper.)

they don’t fuck on the hood. brendon wants to, the way he wanted dallon to press him up against the window in his hotel room, but dallon won’t do anything to spoil the glossy paint job and placates him with a sloppy fuck in the back that leaves them both sweating and weak.

brendon peels his back off of the leather with a sticky noise that makes them both wince- he pulls his boxers up and dallon pushes the hair off his forehead affectionately. he looks up through his lashes, pupils blown in big brown eyes and lips parted in a way that is angelic and sinful and dallon’s hand is tracing the nape of his neck when he says, ‘i love you,’

it comes out on an exhale, luxurious and soft and dallon’s grip tightens, slightly, and before brendon’s face can fall he forces out ‘i love you too.’

he takes another business trip two weeks later and brendon tells his boyfriend he’s going to a concert and they hole up in a fivestar for the weekend.

they order champagne from room service and brendon is tipsy within an hour, kissing down dallon’s neck while some bad pay-per-view porn plays in the background. the girl sucks the guy’s cock and brendon murmurs, softly, ‘you’re gorgeous.’

dallon’s suit is all sharp creases and brendon undoes the buttons of his shirt with soft fingers, his lip between his teeth. ‘how’d the meeting go?’ he asks, and it jerks dallon out of the slight daze of watching his brow furrow and his hands work.

‘it was boring as fuck.’ brendon laughs. ‘i missed you.’

he finishes with dallon’s shirt and his fingers skim his skin and raise goosebumps. ‘i was texting ryan.’ he looks thoughtful, gaze flicking up to him to watch him through brown eyes dark and sensual. ‘does that bother you?’

something changes in his expression and he works at dallon’s belt with long fingers, a delicate touch. ‘i-’ dallon doesn’t know what he expects. he knows what he _wants-_ he doesn’t know if it’s true, but brendon’s palming him through his boxers and looking at him with those eyes and he says ‘of course,’ and it’s the right answer.

he shifts so dallon can feel his hard-on against his thigh, and he suddenly remembers brendon saying he used to be a missionary- he understands, now; he could believe in god if only to realize he made brendon in his image. he would believe in anything to keep brendon looking at him like that, like he’s everything.

the porno’s muted; the only sound in the room is dallon’s breathing and the rustle of fabric as brendon strips, the color high in his cheeks while he peels off his dress shirt. it clings to him, damp with sweat, and he looks pure, hair auburn and skin glowing in the light, untouched by the world. clean, holy, young, he holds dallon’s eyes unashamed and pushes the hair out of his face. he’s artful, golden, sculpted from marble and the definition of _desire_.

he traces dallon’s jawline, looks at him with hooded eyes, savors him. there’s no urgency to his kiss, to the way he pushes dallon’s shirt open. he believes they’re in love, that they have all the time in the world.

dallon’s hands find the dimples in his back when he sinks onto his cock, wrap around his hips and hold him in place. he isn’t loud- brendon’s never been loud, he bites his lip and gasps and his breath comes in shallow huffs and half-curses. dallon watches; his knuckles go white, fisted in the sheets, and he leans against the headboard and watches brendon fuck himself. (the girl in the porno mirrors him, and she wraps her hand around the guy’s throat.)

he barely manages to warn brendon when he’s close, sinking his fingertips into his back, and brendon nods to acknowledge him, but doesn’t move. his hands are around dallon’s thighs when he comes, a sharp, _‘fuck-’_ and still he milks dallon through his own orgasm.

he’s a mess when he lies down next to dallon and rests his head on his chest, naked and sticky and warm. he switches the channel to a movie or something, and dallon feels exhaustion starting to set in his bones. (he knows from experience brendon could go again, but he just lies down beside him, hair mussed.)

it’s probably past five, the sun slanting in through the window and painting them golden. the champagne bottle is half empty, sitting in the ice, and brendon’s cheek is warm against dallon’s skin. his eyes slip out of focus, staring past the tv at the off-white wall, and he asks softly, ‘how long do we have?’

brendon shifts. ‘i have to go home tomorrow.’ he turns his head, presses a kiss to dallon’s chest. ‘so i can stay here all night.’

he’s comfortable in silk sheets. he’s a trust fund kid, content to orbit dallon without insecurity. the phrase _heavenly body_ drifts through dallon’s sleep-muddled mind.

when he wakes, he isn’t sure if he’s dreaming.

 _wakes_ might not be the best word for it; he’s just aware he’s conscious for what feels like the first time in a long time. brendon is beside him, lit dimly in pink. his elbows are on the bar, one hand delicately stirring a cocktail, and the other cradling his chin. dallon’s fingers are around a glass of scotch. he doesn’t remember ordering it.

the shelves are backlit in blue, pink, purple. brendon sits to his right, drenched in shadow, dallon’s shirt loosely buttoned around him. ‘you haven’t touched your drink. the ice is gonna melt.’ he says, his voice low. it has the slight rasp of someone who hasn’t slept.

dallon looks down to see that he’s right- the condensation has gathered into a pool on the coaster, and the ice cubes are barely visible. he takes a drink for brendon’s benefit, swallowing around the burn.

the words fall off his tongue like they weigh nothing. ‘i love you.’

he means it. he wants to mean it. he isn’t sure.

brendon sips his drink. he’s twenty-something, barely legal. dallon’s twenty-first was a decade ago.

‘i love ryan.’

something moves in the corner of dallon’s eye. _the bartender._ he doesn’t turn to look.

‘i love you, too, but i don’t know if i could leave him, you know?’

he does. brendon is young, handsome, ambitious. dallon drinks his scotch.

he isn’t relieved- he thought this conversation would be a relief, a release from the weight that’s been resting on his shoulders since the day in his car, but it feels like it’s settled itself comfortably around his neck.

dallon feels significantly less hazy when he’s sure it’s morning.

brendon wakes him, clad in boxers and a rumpled dress shirt, with coffee.

‘the breakfast downstairs is super fucking crowded.’ he says apologetically. dallon sips from the paper cup- it’s good, for hotel coffee, and he doesn’t know when brendon learned how he takes his coffee, but he must’ve; this is two sugar packets and a half-n-half.

they attend to their shit- downloading a youtube clip of a concert for brendon, and replying to a work email in passive aggressive office jargon for dallon. the muddled memory of the bar doesn’t come back until they’re downstairs, walking from the lobby to the pool, and he catches a glimpse of the hotel bar- it’s nondescript enough that he can’t be _sure,_ not in the light, that it’s the same place- and it certainly doesn’t return in full focus until he’s standing under the shower.

their swim is short-lived. there are too many families for how brendon most likely planned to take advantage of the hot tub and too many people for dallon to truly feel at ease, so they retire to separate showers after a quiet twenty minutes.

the steam opens up dallon’s sinuses, reaches into his pores, and then the clarity is there, _i love ryan,_ and the burn of the scotch, and he presses a kiss to the damp skin of brendon’s neck and asks, ‘did we go down to the bar last night?’

he tugs a shirt over his head and studies dallon, brow furrowed. ‘no?’ something seems to click into place behind his eyes. ‘you feeling okay?’

‘yeah.’ dallon shakes his head, like he can clear the memory from his mind. ‘just had a weird dream, i guess.’

‘of course you’d dream about drinking.’ his tone is light, easy. ‘you fuckin’ alcoholic.’

dallon wraps his arms around brendon’s waist. ‘well, you see,’ he begins, leaning down. ‘when you get to be my age,’ brendon laughs and the world is right-side-up again.

they kiss and dick around until one of the dads from the pool families starts giving them looks, and they walk around the city so the sun will help their hair dry.

he buys brendon the fancy shirts he wants and stands out of frame when he snapchats ryan and by the time they get on the train home the whole weekend feels like it barely happened. the hills rush by outside the window and their hotel room blows away like sand in the wind. another hotel. another set of lies. a weird sort of melancholy settles in dallon’s chest. he was just reflecting on this weekend’s monotony- why, then, is it suddenly different?

he shifts, restless, and brendon notices; he kisses the side of dallon’s neck, gentle and soft. ‘you feelin’ okay?’

dallon nods.

days pass. he falls into bed with a primal sort of exhaustion. his bones ache.

brendon’s insta story is cluttered with videos of him and ryan- they’re at someone’s house, a background and soundtrack that reek of college and remind dallon in perfect iphone camera quality that he’s so very young. not underage- far from underage, very much an adult, but the youngest form of adult. carefree.

dallon goes on a business trip alone.

it’s a weekend in new york, a day and a night and a day in which he meets a guy to keep his bed warm and lies awake wondering if brendon misses him. he checks his phone until spencer or whatever his name is stirs beside him, and he tries to sleep.

brendon visits his apartment.

he doesn’t call beforehand, and dallon looks through the peephole at eyes ringed red and tired. ‘can i come in?’

he makes him coffee and as he’s stirring the sugar brendon wraps his arms around his waist. he kisses dallon’s neck, his body warm and inviting. ‘missed you,’ he murmurs.

dallon turns to peck him on the lips. ‘i missed you too.’ brendon kisses him again, bracing himself against the counter and slipping his tongue between dallon’s lips; his hands come up to tug at dallon’s hair. he is feverishly warm, long musician’s fingers under dallon’s shirt, tangled in his hair. he fumbles with the button of dallon’s jeans, their foreheads pressed together and his lips blush-pink. big brown eyes full of sin. dallon comes down his throat.

the coffee’s still warm. dallon fixes his hair with a self-conscious hand through it, legs unsteady, and brendon says, softly, ‘ryan went through my phone the other day.’

they have burners, flip phones, but that’s worrying; it means ryan suspects something, means a slashed tire and a cigarette butt crushed between his teeth.

he waits. the ball's in brendon's court. this is his risk and dallon watches his adam's apple when he swallows his coffee.

‘i don't think we can keep doing this.’ he taps on dallon's kitchen table. his cuticles are red.

hammers on piano strings. heartbeat.

‘that's probably for the best.’ his voice sounds like someone else's. it matches brendon's faraway eyes.

he picks up smoking again. tosses the burner phone off the fire escape. he buys a new tv. (he considers another car- briefly.) he lives a month detached.

dallon catches up to him on a walk home- a late night, long shadows on the pavement, and he doesn't know what makes him do it, but suddenly he's got his arms around the smaller boy's waist and he's savoring dilated pupils, bitten-red lips.

his hands are fisted in dallon's shirt and everything tastes like adrenaline, mint chapstick and night air and it’s a mistake they won't stop making.

he pulls back from the kiss, tucks a strand of the younger boy's hair behind his ear.  
  
'i have a boyfriend,' ryan says, and dallon knows that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> me: i love brendon! best boy  
> me writing this: hes catherine from catherine
> 
> i started writing this when do it all the time first came out so thats how bad i am at getting shit done
> 
> honestly im really happy w how this turned out :3 im back on my bullshit yall better stan


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